In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

Chapter Seventeen Colonel Fitzwilliam’s Affairs

Riding alone through the ill lit secondary avenues of London as the midnight hour passed was generally considered an unwise option. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was a cautious man for the most part, but also one who, after years of war in places that made London’s mean streets appear as the golden paved lanes of Heaven, did not frighten easily. Nonetheless, he kept his right hand lightly resting on his thigh near the butt of a loaded pistol. He wore a nondescript suit of dark blue, blending into the shadows as his uniform would not allow. It was essential that his mission not be detected. Finding a balance between stealth while not so obviously trying to evade notice was the key. Fortunately, he was skilled at such tactics, the military thorough in the lessons taught to their officers, as this excursion was of the utmost importance.

He turned down another back alley that led to the main thoroughfare he needed to hastily cross, but which was empty, whereas the broader street would likely not be. Even at this late hour and with the vast majority of the inhabitants of the fine townhouses he passed gone for the summer, the traffic in Town was never sparse. The ring of his mount’s hooves on stone blended with the noise echoing from the streets, but he kept his chin down and wide-brimmed hat pulled low just in case attention was drawn. Anonymity was essential. He could not, under any circumstances, encounter someone he knew.

Outwardly calm and vigilant, inside his heart raced. This was the third night in the past two weeks he had embarked on this mission. It was late September, the worst of London’s oppressive heat passing as the trees slowly began to color. The afternoon breezes increased, the evenings shortened with impressive sunset displays, migrating birds flurried in droves, and fall blooms emerged as signs of the autumn season ahead. Not surprisingly, it was the first time in many long years that the hardened man of war who had also lived in the busy city for fifteen years noticed his surrounds in such a light. Fleetingly, he wondered if Darcy had experienced the same sort of sentimental, and rather foolish and embarrassing, tendencies as his love blossomed. Not that Richard would ever ask!

Yet, as ridiculous as he felt at times, there was no denying that these past months were the happiest of his life. The “accidental” encounters with Lady Fotherby had continued unabated all summer long. Initial innocent meetings at The Green Park with brief walks gradually lengthening had led to additional “surprise” rendezvous about town, as planned agendas were shared while nonchalantly conversing. It was remarkably easy to arrange. The official social Season was over, but there were always events happening or places to meet casually. However, as amazing as it was to spend time with her in these settings, it was not as fulfilling as it could have been and as they both desperately wished for it to be. Frank or lengthy conversation was impossible.

Her family remained firm on the necessity for her to mourn officially for a year. Although she had not shared her interest in the son of Lord and Lady Matlock, their increasingly frequent chance assignations were notable. Pointed questions had not been asked, but she gleaned from oblique comments and meaningful glances that her father and uncle were suspicious, at the least, and not happy about the development. She was worried about their opinion on the subject, but refused to dwell on it. Rather she delighted in what even at her age and past history was the first love she had ever experienced.

That her emotions toward Richard Fitzwilliam were real and profoundly deep was without doubt. Clearly his devotion was as strong. Two weeks ago while meeting at the British Museum’s Roman wing, Lady Fotherby had slipped a folded parchment into his jacket pocket. She was so devious and sly in the transfer that he had not discovered the missive until late that night when preparing for bed!

My Dearest R,

I know this is incredibly forward of me and pray I will not earn your disrespect, but I find that my heart can no longer restrain its need to speak with you in a more intimate setting. Therefore, I beseech you to visit me this Tuesday hence. Come discreetly, I beg of you, at the midnight hour to the rear entrance of my house. My trusted servant will be waiting and escort you in undetected. My only wish is to converse openly and adequately express my feelings. No demands are placed upon you, I promise. I simply yearn for the joy in seeing your face. Yours, S

The agony of waiting through the intervening two days until Tuesday was nearly more than he could bear. He vacillated between unparalleled excitement and intense nervousness. The latter emotion was somewhat embarrassing to admit. The truth was he did not know precisely what she contemplated by “adequately express my feelings” and was unsure what his outlook was on the prospects! Richard was not an innocent and obviously neither was Lady Fotherby. The physical attraction they felt for each other was palpable and the thought of loving her as he wished to with every particle of his body was a joyous imagining that he lived each night in vivid detail.

Yet in every dream, she was his wife.

For the first time in his entire life, the mere notion of intimacy with someone other than the woman he hoped to be wed to before the year was out was an untenable concept. He was more than willing to wait and found the abstaining strangely sweet. Still, as thrilling as the vision of consummating their sacred vows in the proper manner and time, he was only human!

He need not have fretted over the matter, however. It is not that Lady Fotherby—Simone, as she would forever now be to him—was not involved in her own struggle over physical desires; but the simple delight in just sitting together holding hands, talking, and stealing kisses was exalting. They talked until the sun sent its first hazy rays over the horizon, Richard hastily escaping into the few remaining shadows. Embarrassment, hesitation, discomposure, unfamiliarity; it all faded in those hours spent communicating.

He shared his past as he had with few people. Honest tales of his wartime experiences, reminiscences from his youth, blunders and ridiculousness of adolescence, University incidents and education, and so on. She spoke of her arranged marriage to the kindly Lord Fotherby, a man she respected and cared for, but had never loved. Mostly she talked about her sons: Harry who was now seven, and four-year-old Hugh. They were the light of her life, Richard understanding and accepting that his love would never supplant the place they held in her heart, but merely come alongside.

They confessed their mutual infatuation all those years ago, admitting honestly that although real, it was of an immature nature. Perhaps it could have escalated into a deeper love, but no time was spent on worthless regrets. Besides, their current affair possessed all the traits of a silly, juvenile romance in how giddy and delirious they were. Now was all that mattered and by the time the first night waned into the blush of morning, their declarations of love were made and plans for a future together were set in motion. October ten was around the corner and Richard fully intended to make his intentions known and officially ask for permission to court Lady Fotherby no later than October eleventh!

Successfully, he traversed the distance between his house to the grand manor in secret. Miss Hale waited at the servant’s door near the kitchen, guiding him through the dark passageways leading to the parlor. She took her seat situated near the doorway, prepared to attentively guard from any unwanted nighttime wanders, while he knocked softly and waited for his love’s welcome.

It came quickly, the door opening to reveal her smiling face and seeking hand that grasped his and pulled him into the room. In a heartbeat, Richard yet fumbling to latch the door behind, she was in his arms.

“I missed you so much!” she breathed, raining kisses over his face.

“You just saw me today at the art exhibit,” he said with a laugh.

“Yes, but we hardly spoke for all the others demanding my attention. What a bother! Why can they not leave me alone and allow me to gaze upon your face in abstracted contentment?”

“There is little to look at, my dear. You would be bored in minutes.”

“Stop that! I weary of you speaking nonsense, Richard Fitzwilliam. Yours is a face I can drown in. Now, come and sit. I have hot tea and your favorite berry tarts. Tell me about your day. You left the exhibit early.”

“I really should not have come at all as my duties were overwhelming me, but I could not resist. Speaking with you, however obliquely, stealing a touch of your fingers or perhaps a kiss, has become my intoxicant. I am addicted to you, dearest Simone.”

She shook her head, blushing as she poured the tea. “The things you say! Ridiculous.”

“Now it is you who are wearying me by not believing the truth of my words, poorly romantic as they are.”

“They are beautifully romantic, Richard. Forgive me. I know you speak the truth in your love for me. I suppose I yet have difficulty grasping it fully. It has not been a topic I have allowed myself to dwell on in the past.”

He gently clasped her chin in his fingers, lifting to gaze into her eyes. “Are your doubts assaulting you today, my love? Is that why your eyes look sad and tired?”

“Only partially. Actually it is Oliver. I returned from the exhibit to discover the physician here and Oliver suffering an episode. I was furious that he ordered not to send for me. He always thinks more of others than himself, sweet boy.”

“Is he better now?”

“Yes, but it was a horrid afternoon. It frightens me so, Richard. The spells occur with increasing frequency and he responds less and less to the treatments. The physicians are confounded. This disease, whatever it is, has no cure or definitive course. All is an unknown while my poor boy suffers.”

“You should be sleeping, Simone. Now that I step back from the sweetness of your lips I see your fatigue. I should leave you to your rest.”

“No! Please! I… needed to see you. I did rest for a bit once his crisis was over.” She cupped his cheek, smiling with the wealth of her love evident. “I, too, am addicted, dearest Richard.”

“Well, I am more than pleased to fulfill your requirements, my Lady.” And they lost themselves for a time in blissful, but controlled, kisses.

The Fotherby tales of sadness and woe dated back many years prior to Lady Simone Halifax joining the family. Her now deceased husband had been married twice prior to taking his young bride to wife. His first wife, a woman he reportedly had loved deeply although he never spoke of it to Simone, had died along with their only child during the birthing process after a mere five years of marriage. Lord Fotherby had refused to remarry for nearly twenty years. His second wife was thrust upon him by frantic family members fretful about the line’s continuation. She was the daughter of a Duke who, despite her impeccable breeding and pedigree, was hiding a chronic illness. None knew of her ailment, the secret hidden carefully behind a stunning dowry and pretty face. Lord Fotherby was furious when the deception was revealed on their wedding night when she was too ill to consummate their marriage.

For fifteen interminable years, they would be married before she finally succumbed to the puzzling disease that defied all medical expertise. In that time, they would rarely speak and even rarer still perform the marital duties necessary to produce an heir, the whole reason for the trumped up marriage in the first place. Nonetheless, three children would be born, two dying in their infancy and a third, Oliver, surviving but clearly stricken with the same malady as his mother.

Lord Fotherby adored his son, worshipped the ground he walked on. It was this overwhelming devotion that prompted him again to take a wife. Left to his own devices, he would not have done so. His heart still belonged to the love of his youth and his physical needs were met by the bevy of mistresses easily accessible to a man of his wealth and power. But Oliver needed a mother. And, as painful as the thought was, Lord Fotherby recognized that he needed another heir.

Well into his sixtieth decade, he was still a vigorous and handsome man, respected throughout the country and fabulously rich. His choices for a third wife were vast, not a father of his class unwilling to give a daughter to Lord Fotherby. In fact, the atmosphere was disgustingly similar to a cattle auction! He had his pick of every available female in all of England. Lady Simone Halifax, daughter to the Earl of Westgate, was not chosen arbitrarily. Physically she was beautiful, but many others were equally so. What drew Lord Fotherby was her innate kindness and empathy balanced with a wit and spunk that he found attractive. He wanted a partner who appealed to him in a sexual way, but who also could take on the various roles necessary for Lady Fotherby and as mother to his son.

Lady Simone was nineteen, over her infatuation with the now departed Second Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam, and, although not in love with Lord Fotherby, was in no way against the union. Like all females of her rank she had been raised to comprehend that marriage was rarely a matter of love, but rather a type of business arrangement. If one was so fortunate as to discover affection and admiration then all the better, but it was not anticipated. In this facet, Lady Fotherby would be highly favored. Lord Fotherby was a good man, the best as a matter of fact. Kind, considerate, generous, devoted, humorous, and a gentle lover, he was more than she had ever anticipated in a mate. She genuinely grew to love her stepson Oliver, who was quite like his father in temperament, and her own two sons were a fount of eternal joy.

For nearly twelve years, her life would move on with the typical soirees, Society functions, and duties as mistress of several vast estates. Lord Fotherby was extremely busy and weeks would often go by without her seeing her husband. She held no illusions that he was entirely faithful, this aspect of marriage not expected nor condemned. But he treated her well, made few demands, made his resources lavishly available, and was devoted to their children. Love would never bloom between them, but esteem and fondness were abundant. Heights of passion were never reached, but she knew no different and was satisfied in the tenderness found within the sexual act when he sporadically sought her favors. Life was content and she had no cause to grieve her situation.

Until Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam reentered her life.

Who can adequately describe the vagaries of love? The poets try and do an admirable job. Yet how is it logical to take one look at someone not seen or thought of for years and know instantly that your heart is lost? To Darcy, Richard described that first encounter with Lady Fotherby as taking his breath away. It would be another two years before he would learn that her internal reaction was as strong. Suddenly, she was as an absurd, love-struck teenager in how she would dream of him and look for him at every function attended. When he was spied, her heart would lurch, face flush, and body tingle. It was asinine and she was mortified. But she could no more halt the feelings than halt the sun from rising.

Her guilt during those years over the mental betrayal to her spouse was intense, but he was barely cold in his grave before she was blatantly flirting with the Colonel and pressing into his kiss! Her fingers had throbbed with the warmth of his lips and her spine shivered for hours, no amount of self-chastisement or shame adequate to overrule the sensations. It was pathetic. She was pathetic, counting the days until she could throw off the somber colors of mourning and hopefully see him again.

And now he was here, in her arms, returning her love with a checked desire genuine and profound. All traces of guilt were gone. If there was one thing she knew of her late husband, it was that he would have wanted her happiness. He had told her so on his deathbed. Clutching her hand weakly, voice faint, he had thanked her for the years of devotion, for their children, and for her faithfulness and perfection as Lady Fotherby. He assured her once again of the home and riches he had provided for her. Lastly, he had encouraged her to live life fully, find joy and peace. Her tears had been sincere when he passed, knowing that she would miss his smile and warmth and wit, but also knowing that she was young and deserved to move on. Thus, there was no remorse at the passion she now embraced in this man who had, to some degree, always lived in her soul. If it all seemed a bit dreamlike, she was gradually overcoming those doubts as well. It was impossible to cling to uncertainties when gazing into eyes brimming with purest love.

The kiss ended, both recognizing the escalating ardor and needing to withdraw before crossing permanent lines. Simone was nearly virginal in the surprising vibrations that raced through her body when he kissed her. Yet her innocence was not complete and she shivered and suppressed a moan of pure need. Richard smiled and pulled her close, nestling her head against his shoulder, and caressing lightly.

Silence fell for a time, broken by her dulcet tones from within the depths of his neck. “It was important that I see you tonight for another reason as well. I received a letter from my father today. He has invited me to our family estate in Hampshire. It really was more of a command, but he misses the grandchildren and we usually do spend some time there in the summer. I have evaded his requests thus far, but am running out of excuses.”

His grip had instinctively tightened, heart falling through the floor. For a frantic moment he experienced a violent stab of fear, a piercing pain followed by a vivid premonition that if she left his presence he would lose her forever. It was irrational and fleeting, but the aftermath lingered and caused him to shudder.

“Simone, must we continue this charade? I love you and you love me! What are a few weeks? Let me come with you and talk to your father now.”

She pulled away, staring into his dear face with a sunny smile and touching his cheek. “I thought of this very thing all afternoon, in between caring for Oliver. You are correct. There is no point in waiting any longer.”

“Excellent!” He interrupted. “When shall we leave? I can request time away easily…”

Her chuckle and light kiss halted his words. “Let me finish, silly man. My, you are like one of my children running away with yourself so! I do not wish to tarry in our decision to be together any longer than you do. But please allow me to speak with my father first.”

He frowned. “This is not the first time I have sensed a hesitation with you on the topic of our marriage, Simone. Do you think your father will be opposed to me?”

“I do not know, Richard, honestly.” She rose, hands wringing while pacing before him. “My father has always been obsessed with rank and situation. All four of us girls were auctioned off to the highest bidder.” She spoke bitterly. Richard knew from her sharing that she alone of the four daughters was fortunate in her marriage, her siblings wealthy and with titles equal to or above what they possessed prior, but none blessed with a kindly man. “You cannot imagine his glee when the Marquess of Fotherby agreed to marry me.”

He bristled, unable to hide his offense at the perceived slight. “I am the son of an Earl. And a colonel in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

“Yes, of course you are right. I am being silly. Worrying for nothing, I am sure.” She returned hastily to his side, taking his hands. “I love you, Richard Fitzwilliam. Surely that is all that will truly matter. But please grant me this one concession. I will send for you when the timing is right. And then I will be yours forever. I will kiss you under the mistletoe as your wife, Colonel, so be prepared.”

“I will be anticipating far more than a kiss, my dear, so you be prepared.”

She blushed, again nestling into his shoulder. Warmth returned to his body but could not entirely dissipate the icy chill buried deep inside.

A week passed without word. Busy with his duties, Richard nevertheless marked the passage of each day with growing excitement. Certain that Simone merely needed time to accustom her father to the fact that she planned to remarry so soon after her famous husband’s death, he was not concerned at the delay. Instead, he waited semi-patiently, attending to his work with no outward sign of expectation unless one noted how he subtly started every time a messenger arrived. He laughed at himself each time, as it was unlikely that a letter from the Marchioness of Fotherby would be delivered to company barracks! Rather he anticipated that an invitation would be waiting for him at home. Yet, as the week swiftly approached a fortnight with the stack of mail sitting upon his desk devoid of a parchment addressed in her delicate handwriting, his excitement turned to mild disquiet.

But nothing prepared him for the shock he received one morning as he sipped on his coffee and nibbled on a toasted slice of thick bread with cheese melted atop, that day’s edition of the London Times spread before him. He skimmed through the social page, not particularly interested in what Lady Whocares had worn to some play at Covent Garden, when his eye was captured. He read the gossipy announcement of the betrothal of the Marquess of Wellson to the widowed Lady Fotherby in utter disbelief, his trance-like gaze returning to the top of the column again and again.

On a windy day in mid-October, after two weeks of pain worse than anything suffered as a result of battle wounds, Colonel Fitzwilliam rode up the long drive toward Pemberley. The mansion beckoned to him with inviting hominess as it always had from the earliest memories of his childhood. No one expected him, the footman Rothchilde hiding his surprise with typical formality.

“Welcome to Pemberley, Colonel,” he greeted, as if unexpected visitors were a daily occurrence, taking the offered coat with an impassive expression. “I will inform Miss Darcy that you have arrived.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Darcy out?”

“They are away at this time, sir. Dr. Darcy is at the hospital in Matlock, but Miss Darcy is in residence.”

Richard managed to hide his dismay at that undesirable news. He nodded, heading unerringly for the parlor and liquor cabinet.

“Cousin Richard, what a pleasant surprise.”

He turned at the voice, glass of brandy halting midway to his mouth, stunned at the vision before him. It was Georgiana, yet not Georgiana. The woman who was once his child ward strolled gracefully toward him with a beatific smile, blue eyes shimmering with happiness. She wore a gown of rich purple velvet, clinging to her tall, willowy, but curvaceous form with perfection, golden hair piled elegantly atop her regal head, face stunningly beautiful above a slender neck and delicate shoulders. She drew close, raising one fine-boned hand to his cheek as her eyes clouded with concern. “What is it Richard? You look sad.”

He would never be able to explain how it happened, but never would he be ashamed at the comfort he sought. With lithe dexterity she captured the glass as it began to fall, gathering his brokenhearted body into her firm, sympathetic embrace, crooning soothingly as she gently rocked the silently weeping man.

They ended up on the settee with him telling her everything as she held tight to one hand. She listened attentively without interjecting once until he had exhausted himself of words.

“I had to come here,” he finished, breathing deeply. “Pemberley has always stilled my soul in a way even Rivallain never did. Of course, I was intending to burden your brother with my woes. Forgive me, little mouse, for laying this on your slim shoulders.”

He smiled weakly, Georgiana shaking her head slowly. “Do not be ridiculous. This is what friends are for.”

“Where are Darcy and Lizzy by the way?”

“They went to the Lake District with the Lathrops, Sitwells, and Vernors. You just missed them as they departed three days ago. They expect to return in a month.”

“Were you not invited?”

She laughed. “No, but I would not have wished to spend three weeks with a group of young married couples.” She paused, the mournful cast to his face at the reference to marriage too awful to ignore. “Oh, Richard! I am sorry! Is there anything that can be done?”

He stood, walking the gait of an old man to retrieve the forgotten glass of brandy, drinking deeply before answering. “No. She has made her decision apparently and the date is set. A Christmas wedding,” he finished bitterly. He drained the drink in one swallow, crashing the glass onto the table’s surface. “Why? I keep asking myself why! I know her father is pressuring her into this! It is the only explanation. But it makes no sense! She is an independent woman now. Lord Fotherby made sure of that with a more than adequate jointure to add to her engagement settlement. Seeking her father’s permission was merely a formality. One I was more than willing to bow to, as it is only proper, but still just a formality. And to choose Lord Wellson! My God, Georgie! The man is disgusting! Obese, crude, in his late fifties, a reputation of mistresses and illegitimate children scattered all over England. The thought of him with Simone…” He paced furiously and although there was not the slightest hint of humor in the realization, Georgiana could not help but note that he, for the first time in memory, reminded her of her brother when he was dismayed or agitated.

“I waited and waited for her to send word for me to join her,” he continued brokenly, voice rising and falling with his anger and pain, “but no word came. Nothing! Then I read about her engagement in the newspaper. In the Society page, for God’s sake! She did not even have the decency to write me herself. I couldn’t believe it, I just couldn’t. In desperation I rode to the estate, but was repelled at the gates, by orders of Lady Fotherby I was told. God, Georgie! How could she be so cold? So unfeeling?”

“Perhaps you misinterpreted her sentiments, dear cousin?”

He shook his head vehemently. “I cannot believe I was so duped! It just cannot be that she would deceive so totally. We talked of marriage, our future together. She said she loved me, over and over! It was in her eyes, Georgie, in her kiss…” He paused, glancing with embarrassment to his innocent cousin whose face remained drawn with sympathy. “Could I have been so blinded by my own desires? I must have, although I still have difficulty countenancing it.” He released a harsh, humorless laugh. “My pride does not wish to face that error in judgment, let me tell you. I am not a child to be so led astray!”

“You said yourself that your visits together were few and usually with crowds about. When it comes to affairs of the heart, it is easy to be blinded into believing what one wishes.”

He halted his frantic pacing, looking with faint amusement into her mature eyes. “My, quite the expert on love, are we Miss Darcy?”

She blushed, ducking her head. “Little personal knowledge, I am pleased to say. And I do pray I never learn this lesson at the expense of my heart. But you know what William suffered and… Well, I do not suppose I am being a horrid gossip if I reveal what happened to Miss Bennet this summer only to you.”

Richard scowled. “Miss Kitty?”

She nodded, it now her turn to launch into another tale of romantic woes. Richard rejoined her on the settee, listening to the story with genuine sadness as he truly cared for Lizzy’s sister. Yet, as reprehensible as it was to admit, there was an odd sort of comfort in knowing that others besides himself suffered such heartaches. Additionally, the reminder of Darcy’s tangled web on the road to marital happiness was a mild consolation. The chances of his romance turning out as Darcy’s did seemed nil; but the hope, however faint, was in the knowledge that there may be peace found after the turmoil.

The following weeks passed in slowness both agonizing with the persistent ache that lived in his heart while also involving moments of tranquility surprising in their intensity.

A leave from his Regiment was granted, only General Tammon guessing that the “family crisis” was more of a personal nature. Richard had fled London with no clear purpose other than to escape the painful memories that seemed to be everywhere he looked and to talk to Darcy. All of their lives, although Darcy tended to be far more secretive than Richard, they had understood each other and innately knew how to cheer each other up.

Affairs of the heart, l’amour, were different however.

The Fitzwilliam family was not raised with the staunch religious ethics and morals of the Darcys. That is not to say they did not revere the Church and the tenets taught, but merely held a slightly more liberal interpretation. Richard did not suffer from the same reluctance to engage in or even discuss matters relating to sex as Darcy did. Although far from promiscuous in his romantic encounters over the years, never taking a mistress nor able to claim a huge number of lovers, Richard was quite certain his experience vastly trumped Darcy’s prior to marriage. Since it was the one topic they had never talked about, he could not be sure, but if a wager was involved, his bet was that Darcy had been innocent upon his marriage, as unlikely as that may have seemed to most.

So ingrained and natural was this taboo subject that Richard had been only mildly hurt when Darcy retreated and suffered in silent solitude after the rejection by Elizabeth Bennet. It was his mother who put the pieces of that puzzle together, Richard feeling like an absolute imbecile in not figuring it out himself; but Darcy going crazy over a woman had simply not been a concept that ever occurred to him. It was so utterly out of character. Since the resolution of that dilemma and Darcy’s happiness in marriage, his cousin had loosened up a bit in expressing emotions and discussing romantic topics. Never, of course, would Darcy follow the often ribald characteristics of some who delighted in boasting about their bedroom antics and prowess, but at least the subject could be broached, as evidenced by his openness in talking about Lady Fotherby. The one area Richard was certain they would agree upon was the sanctity of the marriage state itself and the belief in faithfulness for life; thus, Richard’s driving need to seek out his cousin and dearest friend’s counsel and comfort. He instinctively knew that Darcy would understand his pain.

So he waited and took whatever comfort and weak joy he could find in the interim.

George Darcy was around from time to time as his duties allowed. Richard divulged bits of the sordid story to the older gentleman, who offered empathetic understanding and wisdom interwoven with jovial amusements to distract. He was very busy, however, between his position at the Matlock hospital and the frequent calls to ill folks in the nearby communities. The fame of Dr. Darcy had spread far and wide. He was unafraid and preferred to get his hands dirty in a way that few physicians of the day would. There was nothing he was hesitant to do, nor were there many ailments or injuries he did not know how to treat. Additionally, when faced with a quandary he was relentless and displayed vigor at odds with his age. He welcomed being summoned at all hours of the day or night, the Pemberley footmen who guarded the house during the sleeping hours working harder than they ever had in answering the bell at the side door and climbing the stairs to waken the doctor. Furthermore, it became necessary to keep a stableboy handy to saddle Dr. Darcy’s horse rapidly. A set of rooms in one of the outer buildings had been renovated and given to him as a medical office with constant influxes of bizarre-looking, gleaming devices being delivered along with boxes and boxes of diverse supplies. Darcy encouraged all of it, thrilled beyond measure to have his uncle near and proud of the reputation he earned.

What this meant for Richard was that George was largely away. Therefore, he was left to spend the interminable hours between the oblivion of sleep with Georgiana. The biggest surprise there was how altered the nature of their connection became.

Richard had been astonished upon his Uncle James’s death to learn that he was named co-guardian to his eleven-year-old cousin. His relationship with Georgie at the time was fairly close, but between years away at Cambridge, then military training, and the preparations for his first campaign abroad, Second Lieutenant Fitzwilliam spared little thought for his child cousin. For a number of years after James’s death, he would encounter Darcy with a combination of pleasure in seeing his serious face after their separations while also examining him closely for any signs of ill health! The idea of what he would do if Darcy died and Georgiana was his to care for was quite beyond his comprehension. Once the war ended and Richard settled with his regiment in London, the relationship with his youngest cousin improved. But how does a man of nearly thirty years truly relate to a shy girl of fifteen? However, the familial affection was strong, the Darcys and Fitzwilliams always truly caring for each other. The more time he spent in Georgiana’s company, the more comfortable she became with him and the more she displayed her soft wit, gentle intelligence, and sweet disposition. He began to love her honestly and took his guardian duties more seriously; not that there was much to do in that regard, since her brother was extremely controlling. Additionally, Darcy was as healthy as an ox, so, barring a freak accident, the chances of Colonel Fitzwilliam needing to step up were slim.

Time passed, but in much the same way as Darcy, Richard never really saw Georgiana as anything other than his baby cousin, his little mouse. The horrid manipulation by Wickham had incited him to an anger and urge for violent revenge unlike anything he had experienced even in wartime; but even then, despite recognizing that she could easily have been violated by the evil man, his mind had not taken the leap into considering her a woman capable of romantic feelings and mature intimate relations. Even this past season as he played chaperone at Almack’s and other events a number of times, he was more attuned to the ringing command of Darcy to watch her or die, and therefore kept a diligent, piercing eye on the young men revolving around her!

As the nearly three weeks waiting for Darcy’s return to Pemberley lapsed largely in Georgiana’s company, a measured but profound shift in his thinking occurred. They took long walks in the chilly air, went for extended horseback rides, shopped together in Lambton, dined at each meal, played chess and tennis and a number of other distracting games, performed on their preferred instruments of choice with her teaching him new music, and so on. They sat for hours upon hours in the parlor or library in quiet and sometimes heated conversations as she stunned him further with her possession of a keen grasp of world events and politics, as well as being far more well-read than he was.

The ache of his grief over Lady Fotherby was constant, but ofttimes shoved into some small recess of his being as the pleasure in Georgiana’s company grew. They laughed, debated, conversed, and many times simply sat in serene companionship.

One pivotal night, they retired to the music room. Georgiana was playing on the pianoforte while Richard relaxed in a chair and listened. Peace swirled about him as he watched her beautiful face shine as she played and sang one of her own compositions. He offered honest, enthusiastic applause when she completed the piece.

“Bravo, Miss Darcy. Excellently played! I pray you are not weary of me complimenting you, as I will continue to do so. Truly, your talent is too immense to be wasted by entertaining me.”

“I in no way deem entertaining you a waste of my time, Cousin. As for any great talent to boast of, I believe I am paltry in comparison to most.”

“You do not see your true potential, Georgiana. Trust me. I have heard musical artists at some of the finest establishments in Paris who do not equal you.”

Rather than flushing in embarrassment as he expected, her eyes grew dreamy and voice wistful. “Paris. How I would adore to travel there, or Vienna, or Rome, or anywhere to hear such music.” She sighed heavily.

“You will in time. Perhaps Lizzy and Darcy can take you there next year since she has never been either. In fact, I make you a promise! If they do not take you, I will. We would have enormous fun together! I could use a reprieve and have not been to the continent since the war.”

“Thank you, Richard, but I do not think that would be a good idea.”

He was astonished. “Why ever not? I am very good company, as you know, and have been just about everywhere. We would have a marvelous time!”

She smiled sweetly, but there was an odd glint of sadness in her eyes. “You forget, my dear cousin, that I am nineteen now. A woman. It would be inappropriate for you to escort me. The only reason that gossip is not flying even now is due to Uncle George’s presence and our relative isolation. Have you not noticed some of the pointed glances our way while strolling through Lambton? It is why I dissembled on traveling to Derby for the day. People would have us betrothed by the time we returned to Pemberley!”

She laughed lightly, turning back to the pianoforte, but Richard was shaken. Assimilating her words and fully examining her, he stared at her as she launched into another delightful concerto. The last vestiges of regarding her as a child were eternally swept away in those moments. No longer would he ever think of her as his little cousin, and the adjustment in his consideration was both wonderful and frightening.

It was wonderful in that he suddenly realized with a heartwarming epiphany that he relished her company. She was a person with numerous admirable traits that complimented him perfectly. After two weeks of almost constant companionship, usually alone, there was no doubt whatsoever that they got on well and shared many of the same ideals. More than once, without completely grasping it, he had recognized the domestic quality to their evenings spent in placid company and reveled in it. Frequently, he now discerned with an alarming shock, he had parted from her for the night with a sadness that had nothing to do with grief over his failed romance with Simone.

The frightening aspect in his abrupt insight was what it potentially portended. Could she be the one he had been waiting for all along? Had these past months only been a divine preparation for the fated future that had been in front of him for years? Were his emotions toward Lady Fotherby as fickle as hers apparently were? Or, was he merely searching desperately for any happiness to ease the pain in his heart? Was the serenity and delight he now felt honest or just a temporary balm? Georgiana was undoubtedly beautiful by anyone’s standards, but was he attracted to her in the ways of a husband and lover? Could she ever see him in those roles? Was deep passion necessary and attainable between them, or were friendship and respect and devotion enough?

And worse, what would Darcy say?

The latter was too terrifying to even contemplate, so he left it alone for the time being. In fact, the entire concept was far too enormous to deal with in one sitting. Nonetheless, once opened, the concept could not be tossed aside. Richard Fitzwilliam had serious affairs to contemplate in the weeks ahead.